Dance to Joy Division
by Never-Clip-My-Wings-x
Summary: Set early in Series 3; a Bar Council dinner and free alcohol. Martha/Clive fluff.
1. Chapter 1

_I have nothing to do after I finished Silk on Netflix but write about it and rant about the ending, so have some fluff. I think this will be three parts but not sure (I've almost finished writing the whole thing, I think). Enjoy!_

"Marth, do you by any chance not have a date for the Bar Council dinner thing?" Clive asked, looking up from his desk at her as she was working her way through a stack of papers for a robbery case she really hadn't wanted. She looked up, eyebrows raised as though she was expecting him to repeat what he'd said.

"I was hoping to avoid going, to be honest," she admitted, looking back down and highlighting something somewhat aggressively, "But I'll go with you if you want. When is it?"

"Next Friday," he answered, still looking over at her, "Free bar." That captured her attention spectacularly well, and she suddenly seemed rather interested in the whole idea now she knew that there was free alcohol on offer if she went.

"How fancy is it?"

"Oh, very. Ball gown fancy; the works." He replied, thinking to himself about the events they'd been to together in the past, and the raucous antics after too many glasses of champagne; running through the streets of London like they were still pupils who didn't have any particular need to be home or face death by hangover.

She groaned - he knew she hated what she thought of as pretentious dressing up for no apparent reason, but she'd promised now; she had to come with him now. Whilst she claimed she hated it, though, he loved it when she went to events like that with him, dressed to the nines though she usually complained about it for most of the journey, when they walked into the room arm in arm and he knew everyone's eyes were on Martha, he'd never been able to help the feeling of immense pride at having her with him.

She wondered why he was asking her, not Harriet or any of the younger women who would bend over backwards for Clive Reader to take them to the local Costa, let alone the Bar Council dinner, but didn't dwell on it - he probably wanted to get recklessly drunk with her as they used to do as pupils, though those occasions had been fewer and further between lately. So she returned to the stack of papers, highlighting and underlining in earnest as she wondered what on earth she was going to wear next Friday.

—

Friday arrived, a sunny yet cold day where she won a court case in the morning and took the afternoon off, and found herself panicking over what the bloody hell she was going to wear to this stupidly showy dinner, muttering about pompous lawyers under her breath as she searched store upon store for the right dress. She'd have said it was subconscious, but she knew exactly what she was doing, having caught a glimpse of a photograph of what Harriet was going to be wearing, however it was that she'd managed to get an invitation to the dinner, and was absolutely resolute in her determination to outdo the younger woman. Not, of course, that she was jealous.

It took two hours and the arrival of Bethany after an agitated phone call for her to find _the_ dress. Why she'd left it to the last minute, she didn't know, but Bethany had picked out the black dress from the corner of a boutique in Kensington (possibly the only one in central London that hadn't been searched entirely) and thrust it at Martha insistently, telling her that she _had_ to try it - if only to give Bethany the chance to sit down for five minutes after being dragged around under the pretence that Martha didn't know what she wanted, when the junior clerk knew very well that she wanted to know what the most show stopping outfit possible was to outdo Harriet.

Martha huffed and muttered something about solving world hunger when she saw the price tag, but relented and took it to the changing rooms, an immaculately presented assistant offering her a pair of high heels to try it on with. She was almost tempted to give up and wear one of the gowns she'd bought fifteen years ago for events like that, but her mind soon changed as the assistant helped her to zip up the back of the dress and she turned to look at herself in the illuminated mirror, her suit and shirt strewn on the wooden floor beneath her.

The dress was strapless, black and floor length, with gold brocade all over it, and black glass beads on the bustier - the sweeping skirt just brushed the floor when she wore the heels. Martha found herself somewhat surprised by how she looked; having tried to avoid dressing up like this if she could, she'd forgotten what it was like to look at herself in the mirror in a gown - she found herself wondering, until she quashed the whole premise, what Clive would think when he saw her. Things had been strange since his silk party, not that going to the Bar Council dinner with him would make them any less so, but she wanted to know if he still felt the same way about her.

"Bethany?" she asked, turning and taking a few steps out to where the junior clerk was sat on a dove grey sofa in the middle of the shop, asking silently for her approval as she turned around to give the younger woman a view of the whole dress.

"Perfect, Miss," the younger woman said, beaming up at her, "Mr. Reader won't know what's hit him." she continued with a smirk, which was returned by Martha, both knowing that there was no point in pretending that Bethany didn't know how Martha felt, and that it was the reason that they were here.


	2. Chapter 2

She took a somewhat excessive amount of time getting ready - usually, she hardly had time to put her lipstick on when she woke up late in the morning, but tonight was special, she had to admit. Clive was coming at seven, and she'd got home just after five, immediately running herself a bath with the most expensive oil and putting Unknown Pleasures on her record player, pouring her first glass of wine as she sank into the hot water. She shaved her legs, taking great care not to cut them for once, and washed her hair, wrapping it up in a towel as she made her way to her bedroom. The dress was laid out on the bed, and she stroked the skirt, smiling to herself.

Six o'clock, her hair dried, she poured herself a second glass of wine and sat at her dressing table in her matching black lace underwear, staring at herself hard in the mirror as she began the process of applying her makeup. She left her lipstick until last, lining her lips with pencil and peering into the mirror as she applied the bright red lipstick and checked the rest of her makeup for a smudge of eyeshadow in the wrong place. She searched her wardrobe for the shoes and bag, eventually finding them in a box she'd obviously forgotten to unpack when she'd moved into the flat years previously, and slipped her dress on, looking at herself long and hard in the mirror as she zipped it up and adjusted it slightly, though there was no need. It was beginning to get dark outside, and the light from the streetlamps shone through her bedroom window and made the gold fern brocade on the black skirt shine - it was the sort of dress that meant she found herself constantly watching her reflection, such was its intricacy, and she had to admit, it was beautiful. Bethany really had excelled herself.

Half past past six, she returned to the bottle of wine in the kitchen, walking barefoot across the floorboards so as not to cripple herself in her shoes more than strictly necessary. She stared out of the window, her hand shaking very slightly, which she put down to the sheer quantity of caffeine she'd consumed that day rather than nerves. She was _not_ nervous; going to a dinner with Clive, her best friend of the best part of twenty years, she told herself - that would be ridiculous. She downed that glass and poured another.

She returned to her dressing table at quarter to seven, having polished off most of the wine and turned her rarely used curling iron on, beginning to add waves to her blonde bob and deciding about five minutes into her attempts that she couldn't be bothered, turning off the curling iron and slipping her black high heels on, sitting on the edge of her unmade bed, buckling up the straps around her ankles and standing up, teetering for a moment before her balance caught up and she strode over to her dressing table, picking up her lipstick and applying it carefully again where it had transferred from her lips to the wine glass, just as the doorbell rang.

She swore under her breath as she went to the door, heels clicking on the stairs. She inhaled deeply before answering the door, reminding herself that she was absolutely not nervous in the slightest as she twisted the lock and opened the door to Clive, stood in his best suit and bow tie, tall and _God, he was handsome_.

"Wow," he murmured when he saw her, as though he didn't realise he was making the sound as he looked her up and down, "You look incredible, Marth."

"Thank you. Come in," she smiled, stepping back and letting him in; their bodies close in the hallway, "I'll be two minutes," she gabbled, looking down at her feet as she went back to her room to get her handbag, "Help yourself to wine."

He picked up the full glass of red wine on the kitchen worktop, the bright lipstick stains giving away the fact that she'd been drinking whilst getting ready, leaning against the cupboards and taking a sip as he waited for her. Martha looked the most beautiful he'd ever seen her; the long black dress accentuating the curves of her slim body, her hair slightly wavy and her makeup flawless, like she'd spent an age preparing for tonight. He smiled to himself - Martha was funny like that; she'd never tell him that she'd spent that much time preparing for the dinner, but he could see the details that told him; the smell of bath oil, the dress which was definitely new and expensive, not to mention the fact that she'd left chambers hours early and taken Bethany with her. He shook his head and smiled at the thought.

"Ready?" she asked, closing the black clutch bag she held in her left hand and looking at him from across the kitchen. He stared at her blankly for a moment, thinking to himself that he was the luckiest man alive that night, then nodded, holding out his arm for her to take as they descended the few steps to her front door and left, Martha locking the red door and putting her keys in her bag before taking his arm again and beginning the ascent up the stone steps to street level.

"Are you sure you're going to be able to pull off all your preposterous dance moves wearing that?" he asked as she climbed the steps slowly, and she gave him a gentle dig in the ribs with her elbow before responding;

"Oh don't you worry, Fred Astaire, I've got my rave outfit ready and waiting for The Clash."

"I look forward to it."


	3. Chapter 3

She could feel people watching her as they walked towards the hotel where the dinner was being held; men who stared across the street and internally deplored Clive for having such a beautiful partner that night; women who watched the gown in admiration, and a little girl who had gazed up at Martha in awe as they crossed the street towards the large, light stone hotel on the bank of the river, and Martha could see Clive suppressing a beaming smile as they walked, arm in arm, up the steps into the hotel.

"I feel like Princess Diana," she muttered, glancing towards the door, and he laughed, leading her towards the function room across the marble floor of the foyer, "I bet she had the sense to wear more comfortable shoes."

They walked into the dining room arm in arm, slightly late and thus received by a room thronging with people, milling around with champagne flutes and making small talk. Clive noticed the eyes of most of the room divert to watch; everyone's eyes focused on the woman with her arm linked through his, who he knew would have felt considerably more comfortable had she been walking into the world's biggest courtroom as opposed to a dinner. She held his arm a little tighter, and he smiled at her, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek and seeing Harriet in the corner of the room looking very much as if her ears were about to start emitting steam.

"Where's the booze?"

—

Somebody naïve had decided that it ought to be one of those functions where champagne glasses were perpetually filled without asking, and Martha being Martha, seemed to see this as some sort of challenge to drink the entire hotel dry and bankrupt the Bar Council's events department. Whilst making small talk with a group of barristers from another chambers, Clive was certain that she'd downed at least five glasses of the expensive drink, although this arithmetic was clouded by the amount of champagne he consumed himself, and they had immediately moved onto the wine at the table when they sat down. Despite this, she managed to be eloquent and charming as ever as they spoke to the others on their table through the meal, and he spent the entire three courses wondering if she'd slap him if he told her that he loved her again; looking at her when he hoped she wouldn't notice his gaze as they ate, drank and laughed through the evening.

"Dance?" he asked, holding out his hand to her as the band began to play and the bottles of wine lay empty; some sort of classical music as opposed to the 80s throwbacks that would eventually be played by someone who'd got fed up of the pretentiousness. Probably Martha, if his Silk party had been anything to judge by.

He remembered moments later that Martha Costello was not a natural dancer. Alcohol made her coordination worse and her confidence greater; a combination which provided Clive with great amusement as she stumbled around the dance floor with him, laughing until there were tears in her eyes as she fell over both his feet and her own, whilst most people glided around the dance floor with no catastrophes befalling them until Martha tripped over the edge of her dress and nearly tumbled into a highly respected judge who was at the event with his barrister wife. Others may have tutted, but Clive could only laugh as they tried, once again, to move in synchronisation, though neither could really care less about the dancing.

The band took a momentary break, and she looked up at him for a moment where the whole world seemed to stop, took his hand and lead him away silently and determinedly as she'd done at his Silk party, grabbing another flute of champagne from a waiter with a silver tray on her way and downing it as quickly as possible as they went towards the secluded balcony upstairs, hand in hand. He didn't ask her what the hell she was doing - if there was one thing he'd learnt in the past two decades, it was that Martha's mind worked in mysterious ways - and instead followed her up the staircase which led to the balcony overlooking the Thames, illuminated by the moon and some fairy lights woven into the ivy on the side of the hotel.

She turned around, resting against the stone edge of the balcony, and looked up at him, swallowing before she spoke. She looked nervous, and he looked at her questioningly, somewhat worried in case she passed out again, but she took his other hand and inhaled deeply, before she spoke.

"I love you, Clive."

He didn't know what to say to that. He stared at her in disbelief; stared at the way the moonlight danced in her bright blue eyes; at the way her light hair moved in the gentle evening breeze; at the nervous smile currently gracing her delicate features, and gulped, before replying in the only way his alcohol-influenced, slightly numb from shock brain could think of. It wasn't exactly smooth.

"As much as Joy Division?"

She burst out laughing, her light hair bouncing as she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. He let go of her hands and wrapped his arms around her waist, praising the God that he wasn't entirely sure he believed him for giving them that night together.

"Don't push your luck," she told him as she pulled away and they began the descent of the stairs to the dining room, hand in hand, though the smile on her face told him that he may have been heading up in Martha's league table - perhaps he'd overtaken The Cure, if he was lucky, "You've got lipstick on your face, by the way."

—

As predicted, somebody had the foresight to dismiss the band in favour of a playlist clearly intended for an event such as this where drunk so-called professionals were at the end of their tether with waltzing like they were ninety, and Martha, worryingly, was in her element. They both made total fools of themselves, and though everyone else was joining in with the outlandish nostalgic dancing, no one could possibly have been having as much fun as them, he was certain.

It seemed weird, watching someone in a ballgown dance wildly to Pulp and Joy Division, but it was so very Martha and he wanted to remember her awful dancing for the rest of his life, he thought to himself as he partially joined in, partially looked on at her dancing with CW and some other women that he didn't know. He was vaguely aware of someone with a camera, and made a mental note to trawl through any photographs he could find for one of Martha dancing; not least to embarrass her, but also because he genuinely wanted the memory of that night to last forever. Maybe he'd frame it, so that the embarrassment would be permanent - after all, she still had the photo of him face down in the street outside The Crown after a drinking contest when they were new tenants of Shoe Lane, so how unfair could it be?

When they left the hotel, he gave her his suit jacket to drape over her shoulders as they walked - or, more accurately, stumbled - through London, neither entirely sure whose flat they were going to, though both of them knowing they'd be sharing a bed that night. She'd pilfered a bottle of Bollinger from the table, and they stopped on the embankment near Tower Bridge to open it - he stood behind her and helped her ease the cork out of the bottle with a pop. Martha took a swig, leaving a stain of red lipstick at the mouth of the bottle and handing it back to Clive, who copied suit before climbing on the bench to sit on the light stone wall between the pavement and the Thames, staring at the flowing river as Martha hauled herself up unceremoniously to sit next to him, leaning against him as he put his arm around her.

They spoke aimlessly as they drank, forgetting due to a combination of inebriation and happiness their responsibilities and professionalism for one night. The champagne bottle was all-too-quickly emptied, and he jumped down from the wall, Martha watching him and raising one eyebrow in a show of reluctance as he encouraged her to follow him and jump.

"You mean you're not equipped for a bit of free running, or whatever they call it?"

She glared at him, resisting the temptation to make another comment about him trying to sound normal, and he held out his arms for her as she turned on the wall, lowering herself down as elegantly as she could manage, which, being both drunk and Martha, wasn't very elegantly at all. He didn't put her down, to her mild annoyance, instead carrying her to the side of the road and laughing as she kicked her legs in a show of defiance, and she hailed a cab, empty champagne bottle in hand as she waved her arm into the road for a taxi.

"Yours or mine?" he asked, putting her down on the pavement and ushering her into the black taxi which pulled up, closing the door behind him as he sat down on the back seat with her, draping his right arm around her shoulders as she leant against him once more and the lightbulb faded after a few seconds. This was quite unlike it had been that night in Nottingham, where nearly two decades of waiting had come to a head when he'd kissed her, and their journey to his room from the bar in the city was hurried, their kisses frantic - tonight, he told himself, they weren't just going to fuck drunkenly; tonight would be special.

She gave the taxi driver her address by way of response, and somehow that was a sign that she wanted this to be special, too. She didn't take one night stands back to her flat; he knew that, and as she turned her head and moved to kiss him, she took his hand in hers, linking her fingers with his and smiling as he squeezed her hand.


End file.
